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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915787">The Happening of Brier Hill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaCarlaUndead/pseuds/SantaCarlaUndead'>SantaCarlaUndead</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Cure For Wellness (2016), The Lost Boys (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bar Fight, Blood Drinking, Boys In Love, Brainwashing, David is shy, David is softer in this, Dive Bars, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Roller Coaster, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Michael is determined to find out Brier Hills secrets, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, References to David Bowie, The Ramones References, Vampires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:08:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaCarlaUndead/pseuds/SantaCarlaUndead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a terrible darkness at Brier Hill</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David &amp; Michael Emerson (Lost Boys), David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Have you chosen your senior project subject, honey?”</p><p>Michael nods his head. “Yeah. The Brier Hill Institute.” </p><p>“Isn’t that that wellness center in, um…” Lucy whorls her index finger as if she’s stirring the air above her head. “Oh! Solvang! That lovely little Danish town in Santa Barbara County. It looks right out of a fairytale.”</p><p>“You’ve been there, mom?” He asks, surprised. </p><p>“Mhm.” His mother affirms with a short nod. “A long time ago, when I was just a teenager.” She pauses for a long moment. “It’s where your father and I met.” </p><p>Michael’s face sours at the very mention of the man. </p><p>“Oh, yeah? Then the place can’t be that great…” He mutters, toeing at the hardwood floor.</p><p>Lucy tuts. “Michael, please… it was a long time ago. Your father and I, we were different people then.” </p><p>Michael huffs, lowering his gaze to his shoes, and nods his head. “I know. I’m sorry, mom…” </p><p>“It’s okay, honey. I… I understand how you feel. But that’s all in the past now.” The pixie-like woman claps her hands suddenly. “Anyhow, when are you planning on visiting that institute in Solvang, then?” </p><p>Michael shrugs nonchalantly. “Uh, I don’t know. I was actually thinking tomorrow. It’s only a four hour ride…” The woman hums in motherly concern at the distance.</p><p>“Four hours is an awful long ways away, Michael.” </p><p>The brunet deflates. “C’mon, mom, I’m eighteen years old. I’m old enough to handle a little four hour road trip. Besides, I’ll make sure to call you when I get there?”</p><p>“Alright.” Lucy relents with a sigh. “But I better get that phone call, mister.” She points a commanding finger. </p><p>Sam pokes his head out of the kitchen. “A phone call?” He lisps, his mouth full of what looks like peanut butter. “Where are you going, Mike?” He asks curiously. </p><p>“Outta town, Sammy. It’s for school.” Michael explains. </p><p>“How can going outta town be for school?” Sam pries, his words sounding a little funny thanks to the Skippy stuck to the roof of his mouth. </p><p>Michael huffs at his little brother’s probing antics. “It’s for my senior project, Sammy. The place I’m writing my paper on is outta town.” </p><p>The younger boy doesn’t look convinced. It’s a dead giveaway by the way he narrows his eyes. “Oh, yeah? What’s the place called, Mike?” </p><p>“Samuel…” Their mother sighs in exasperation. </p><p>“What?” Sam gasps as if he’s not being a pest. “I just wanna know…” </p><p>“Jeez, Sam. The place is called the Brier Hill Institute. It’s in some small town called Solvang. Happy?”</p><p>Sam ventures fully out of the kitchen, a half-empty jar of Skippy peanut butter with a spoon sticking out of it in his hand. “An institute? ‘You going to see crazies?” </p><p>“Sam, it isn’t polite to call them that.” Lucy berates. </p><p>“What? No, Sam.” Michael retorts. “It’s a… a wellness center, or something. In some old mansion.” </p><p>“How old?” Asks the younger boy as he scoops up a spoonful of peanut butter and pops it into his mouth. </p><p>“What do you mean, “how old”...?” </p><p>“How old’s the Institute place, doofus?” Sam clarifies. </p><p>Michael shrugs. “I don’t know, like, 150-years-old, or something like that. Why do you wanna know?” </p><p>His brother plops his spoon back into the peanut butter jar and makes an exaggerated face. “What, dude? Is it a crime to be curious?” He nearly flings the Skippy jar across the living room as he throws his arms up. </p><p>“In your case, Sam? ...Probably, yeah.” Michael replies. </p><p>Sam actually looks offended, but in a really funny way. “Oh, shut up, Mike.” He sticks his tongue out, which happens to be coated in a gross layer of peanut butter.</p><p>“Agh-!” Michael scrunches his nose up. “Gross, man!” As if just to spite him, Sam adds a glob of frothy saliva to the equation and sticks his tongue out further. Their mother presses her lips together and fixes him with a pointed look that very clearly says, “that’s enough”. </p><p>“Okay, well, I’m going to bed.” Michael huffs. “Gotta get up at the crack of dawn.” </p><p>Lucy offers a gentle smile that could rival the softness of pillowy cotton candy. “Alright. Night-night, honey.” Michael gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning and making his way to the stairs. </p><p>“Remember, honey...” Lucy says after a moment, turning towards the stairs, which Michael is already three-fourths of the way up. “Call me.” </p><p>Michael gives a crooked smile and nods. “I will, mom.” He glances at Sam, who has thankfully swallowed the peanut butter. “‘Night, Sammy.” Sam waves the empty Skippy jar at him in return before scurrying off, Nanook hot at his heels, which speaking of... ‘Where the hell did Nanook come from anyway?’ He thinks to himself. Oh, well. He should know by now that where there’s Sam, there’s also Nanook. He’s never very far behind. </p><p>He throws himself face down onto his bed like a sack of potatoes once he reaches his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother to change out of his street clothes or kick his ratty Nikes off. Michael glances at the alarm clock on his cluttered bedside table and huffs. He’s gotta be up by 5:30. That gives him exactly six hours of blissful shut-eye. Well, if Sam doesn’t ruin it somehow. </p><p>The brunet sighs, burying his face into his pillow and closes his eyes. </p><p>Meanwhile downstairs, Sam yaps away at their mother like an attention-seeking chihuahua. “You’re seriously gonna let Michael go outta town by himself, mom?” He jabs his thumb in the general direction of the stairs. </p><p>Lucy sets down the stack of plates she’d been putting away in the cupboard. She knows where this is going. </p><p>“What if he ends up on that show ‘Unsolved Mysteries’, or something?!” The boy all but screeches. </p><p>“Samuel, your brother is a smart boy. Nothing is going to happen to him.” She takes advantage of the fact that he’s leaning against the counter near the cupboard and hands him the stack of plates she’d been putting away. </p><p>Sam huffs in defeat, closing the cupboard once all of the plates are neatly stowed away. “Okay, mom…”</p><p>The woman smiles as sweetly as ever. “It’s late, honey. You better get to bed. Go wash up.” She says softly. </p><p>“But, what about the rest of the dishes?” Asks Sam. </p><p>Lucy smiles. “Oh, I can manage, honey...” The woman hums softly, placing her sudsy dish sponge in the sink. “Maybe tomorrow we can visit that comic shop you like so much?” She suggests. “The one at the boardwalk?” Sam’s face lights up with excitement at the prospect. </p><p>“Oh, yeah! That’d be great!” He exclaims cheerfully. “I can even introduce you to my friends, Edgar and Alan!” </p><p>“That’d be nice, Sam.” His mother replies with a smile, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re making some friends. I know the move hasn’t been easy on you, or Michael.” She sighs softly. </p><p>Sam shrugs his shoulders. “This place is actually pretty cool… Huh, Nanook?” He looks down at the large canine at his side with a fond smile and ruffles the fur atop it’s head. Nanook gives an appreciatory bark. </p><p>“Quiet, Nanook. You’re gonna wake up grandpa.” Sam shushes, while his mother looks on and chuckles. </p><p>“I think you better get to bed, honey.” She says after a moment, smiling warmly. She glances down at Nanook. “You too, Nanook.” </p><p>“Yeah, okay, mom.” The young boy nods, giving her a quick hug and peck on the cheek. “G’night. Love you.” He nods his head towards the stairs as he walks away. “C’mon, Nanook.” The Malamute runs after him. </p><p>Lucy’s eyes twinkle like a starry constellation as she smiles, and she waves. “Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The incessant buzzing of Michael’s alarm clock wakes him like a slap across the face. It feels like there’s a supersized bumble bee flitting around inside his skull. He pulls his pillow out from under his head and hurls it at his alarm clock with a groan. He guesses that the pillow knocked the clock off his bedside table judging by the heavy ‘thud’ that reaches his ears. “Ugh, shit...”</p><p>“Mike, you alright?” Sam’s muffled voice asks through his door. </p><p>Michael huffs as he drags himself out of bed. You’d think he was being dragged away to the gallows by the way he was acting, but the truth is is that he’s just not a morning person. Never has been. “M’fine, Sam.”</p><p>He yanks his bedroom door open and sighs when he’s met with his brother, who’s always so unusually chipper in the morning. “What’re you even doing up, Sammy?” He rubs his hand down his face with a huff. “It’s 5:30...”</p><p>His brother frowns. “Grandpa woke me up to help him with the horses.” He rolls his eyes with a groan. “I don’t think Winnie likes me very much. Look! She got hay all over me!” He flings his arms out dramatically to show off the hay covering his sweatshirt. It’s even in his hair. </p><p>Michael scans him, the corner of his mouth twitching in mild amusement. “You look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz after the flying monkeys tore him apart.” The younger boy huffs and juts his bottom lip out as he folds his arms across his chest. “Oh, shut up, Mike.”</p><p>“I’m just messing with you, Sammy.” Michael ruffles his brother’s hay-peppered hair affectionately. Some of the hay flutters down onto the floor, settling at their feet.</p><p>“Alright, well…” Michael sighs, raking his fingers through his messy hair. “I’m gonna go grab a cup of coffee, then I gotta hit the road.” He brushes past Sam as he makes his way towards the stairs. </p><p>“Aw…” His brother whines after him, dragging his feet down the creaky wooden steps like they’re filled with lead. “You gotta leave this early?”</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy… I told you and mom I’d have to leave early.” </p><p>“Well, yeah…” Mumbles Sam. “But I didn’t think you’d actually end up leaving this early.” </p><p>Michael shoots a glance over his shoulder at the younger boy as he walks into the kitchen. “What’s that supposed to mean, man?” He takes an eclectic mug down from the open shelf above the coffee pot. </p><p>Sam stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “You and mornings are like Superman and kryptonite.” </p><p>Michael snorts softly, internally shaking his head. Only his brother would use a Superman metaphor to describe his extreme dislike for mornings. Specifically the whole ‘waking up’ part. “Sure, Sam.” He raises his mug to his lips and slurps a sip of his Folgers. </p><p>He tracks after the younger boy, who swipes a half-empty box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch off of the counter and shovels a handful of the cinnamon-sugar squares into his mouth. “What? It’s true.” </p><p>“Uh-huh, whatever you say…” The brunet replies, tousling his brother’s hair as he walks by. Sam follows after him like a lost puppy, the cereal box still grasped in his hand. </p><p>“Mike, do you really gotta go? C’mon…” </p><p>“Yeah, Sammy, I do. I’d really like to graduate.”</p><p>Sam groans like a child who's just been told to eat their vegetables, otherwise they’re not getting dessert. He nearly sends cereal all over the floor when he throws his arms down in emphasis. </p><p>“Besides… isn’t mom taking you to that comic book shop you like so much?” Asks Michael as he searches through a cluster of boxes stuffed away under the stairs for a backpack. </p><p>Sam sighs. “Yeah. Later today.” </p><p>“Then chill out. You can hang out with those weird friends of yours while you’re there, too.” The brunet comments, grunting as he pulls a beat up JanSport backpack out from underneath a heavy box. </p><p>“They’re not weird, Mike!” Sam shoves him in the shoulder, but not in a confrontational way. </p><p>Michael scoffs in disbelief and turns to face his brother. “Uh… no, they are. And I’m pretty sure the one with the bandana thinks he’s Rambo...” He walks around Sam, backpack in hand and makes for the stairs again. He pauses in his ascent and steps to the side as Nanook comes barrelling down, presumably at the sound of his brother’s voice. Or maybe the rattling of the cereal box. </p><p>“Ah! Nanook! You can’t have Cinnamon Toast Crunch!” Sam screeches.</p><p>‘Ah, so the cereal it is.’</p><p>He can’t help but crack a smirk as Sam scolds the dog. Something about the whole situation is just so funny. Maybe it’s the fact that Sam treats Nanook like a little person, Michael doesn’t really know. He rifles through one of the U-Haul boxes beside his bed and pulls out a couple of t-shirts and pairs of blue jeans, which he stuffs into the backpack he’d pulled out from under the stairs. Once he’s pretty sure he’s got everything he needs, he hoists the backpack up, grabs his jacket and keys, and exits his bedroom. </p><p>As he passes by the kitchen, Michael can see his brother flitting around the fridge. Nanook is, of course, glued to his side. He stops, peeling his head around the corner. “Gotta go, Sammy. I’ll see you later.”</p><p>Sam glances over his shoulder and waves. “See ya, Mike. Don’t get murdered!” He calls as his brother rolls his eyes and keeps walking. </p><p>A rush of crisp morning air washes over Michael as he opens the front door. It’s refreshing, and it’s enough to clear away the remaining tiredness fogging his brain. He tugs his jacket on, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as he approaches his Honda XL250-S.</p><p>Grandpa waves to him from one of the horse pens where he’s wrangled Chuck, a rather temperamental Appaloosa with an affinity for grazing at peoples hair. Michael gives a short wave as he passes by the gate before coasting down the dirt road leading into town. </p><p> </p><p>He reaches Solvang by noon, and he’s gotta hand it to his mom, she was right. The place does look like it hopped right out of a fairytale, and it has no absence of the so-called ‘charm’ she’d been raving about. The streets are lined with picturesque shops and buildings, all of which are in the traditional Danish-style. There are even those stereotypical wooden windmills. </p><p>The institute is further past town, nestled away in the lush Californian countryside like a hidden gem from a past world. The structure is forged of brick and stone, parts of it looking very much like a castle. Large black chimneys overgrown with English ivy cut into the sky like skyscrapers. Michael whistles in astonishment as he rides through the Victorian cast iron gates. </p><p>He makes his way around the circular cobblestone driveway, parking his Honda beside the front entrance. Michael takes a minute to just look around before going inside. He’s met with a sweeping foyer which is further highlighted by an ornate grand staircase and lit sconces. </p><p>“May I help you, sir?” </p><p>Michael spins around. A small woman dressed in what looks like a 50s-esque nurses uniform smiles at him. </p><p>“Um…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m here for a research project.” The nurse hums in recognition and he breathes a sigh of relief. </p><p>“I think I remember hearing something about that from Dr. Lawrence.” She says. “I’ll go and fetch him for you.”</p><p>“Thanks…”</p><p>“Of course, may I take your name?” The woman, whose name is Greta judging by her name tag, gets her pen ready. </p><p>“Michael. Michael Emerson.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mr. Emerson?” A tall man in glasses and a lab coat comes around the corner. “My name is Dr. Lawrence, but you can call me Max. I’m the director of this institute.” He extends his hand at the introduction. </p><p>Michael nods and shakes his hand, which is strangely chilly. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you.”</p><p>“I hear you have an academic interest in our facility.” Says Max, his tone of voice eerily pleasant. </p><p>“Yeah. I needed a topic for my senior essay, and I thought this place seemed pretty interesting.” </p><p>“Well,” Max claps his hands together enthusiastically. “Feel free to explore, interview patients and staff, by all means.” He gestures. “All I ask is that you follow our regulations, Michael.” </p><p>The brunet nods responsively. “Yeah, of course.”</p><p>The older man pats Michael’s shoulder and nods his head with a tight smile. “Wonderful. And if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He peeks at his wristwatch. “Excuse me, I have to be getting back to work. It was nice to meet you.” </p><p>Michael nods. “You too.” Max turns, his lab coat swooshing dramatically like a cape, and walks down a nearby hallway lined with doors. A few staff members pepper the corridor as well, some of them idly chatting and others diligently jotting things down onto their clipboards. </p><p>His eyes linger on the corridor for only a few seconds more, observing the comings and goings of nurses and orderlies, before he turns and decides to take a look around. Michael crosses the foyer and passes through a set of double doors leading out to a courtyard that looks like a spectacle from a dream. Tree limbs reach into the sky as if they’re trying to steal away the clouds and little pollen particles drift along with the wind like fairies. Patients clad in white dot the emerald expanse. </p><p>His attention is drawn away by a figure in the distance which is a stark contrast to the bright surroundings. He treks across the grass towards a large stone fountain surrounded by what look like crumbling pillars. Strolling around the fountain is a boy probably no older than himself. He trails a hand along the smooth limestone, humming softly. </p><p>“The Ramones?”</p><p>The boy startles, looking up from the serene water. Michael can’t help but think how eerily beautiful he is. </p><p>Michael clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “That song you were humming.” He clarifies after a lengthy pause. </p><p>The platinum blond knits his brows and shakes his head in confusion before going back to ambling around the fountain. His movements are almost spectral. </p><p>“Who are the Ramones?” He asks suddenly. Michael gawks, stepping up to the edge of the fountain. </p><p>“You’ve never heard of the Ramones?” </p><p>The blond boy shakes his head and Michael doesn’t know what to do with himself. “They’re a, uh, punk rock band.” He begins to explain. “From the 70s.” He goes quiet for a minute before asking, “You a patient here?”</p><p>“Dr. Lawrence says I’m a special case.” </p><p>“What does that mean?” The brunet asks, watching as the boy sprinkles some dried up leaves into the water.</p><p>“How long have you been here?” </p><p>The blond cracks a smile. “As long as I can remember.” </p><p>Michael nods. It’s not a very informative answer, but he guesses it’s better than nothing. He leans over, peering into the water the other boy’s peppered with crumbled leaves. It’s like black ink. He starts when he notices the platinum blond standing on the lip of the fountain to his left, his head tilted at a slight angle like he’s curious. </p><p>“What about you? Are you a patient here?” He asks. </p><p>Michael shakes his head. “Uh, no. I’m just here to do some research for my senior project essay.” The blond nods and hops down from the fountain, peering past him at the institute. Michael follows his gaze, his eyes settling on Dr. Lawrence, or ‘Max’ as he’d been told to call him. The tall man waves his arm in a ‘come hither’ sort of motion. He’s confused at first, until he catches the blond boy slipping past him. “Where’re you going?” </p><p>The boy stops, looking back at Michael. “I have to go...” Is all he says before beginning to walk again. </p><p>“W— Hey, what’s your name?” Michael calls, cupping a hand around his mouth like a small megaphone. </p><p>The platinum blond smiles. “David. You?” He throws the other boy's inquiry back like a boomerang, quick and to the point.</p><p>“I’m Michael.”</p><p>David chuckles softly and nods his head. “Nice to meet you, Michael.” </p><p>The way David says his name sends shivers down his spine, but in a good way. It reminds him of the time he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his arm, and how they’d dosed him up on anaesthesia at the hospital. It’d turned him into a giggling mess. </p><p>Michael hangs back, observing from an amiable distance as David approaches Max like a deer treading lightly through the forest’s lush underbrush. The older man pats the blond on the shoulder good-naturedly and says something, but Michael can’t tell what exactly. Max throws an arm over the shorter blond’s shoulders as if the two of them are the best of friends, and ushers him into the institute. There’s just something… off. He doesn’t have long to stew over it though. A voice with a very distinctive English accent pulls him from his thoughts. He glances to his left, his eyes settling on an older, but not quite elderly woman.</p><p>“I haven’t seen you around here before.” She says with a soft smile, tilting her head slightly. “Forgive me,” The woman makes a flustered gesture and extends a hand, introducing herself. “Vicky Atkinson.” </p><p>Michael shakes her free hand. “Michael Emerson.” </p><p>“Will you be staying with us?” Asks Vicky. She drums her fingertips against the beige file folder she has clutched against her chest, which is overflowing with creased sheets of paper and what look like bits of newspaper clippings. </p><p>“Uh, just for a couple days.” Michael replies. “I’m just here to do some research for an essay.” He explains. </p><p>“Ah, you’re a curious one, hm?” The woman smiles. “I’ve always been partial to puzzles myself. In fact, I’ve been doing a little research on this place. Here—“ Vicky flips her file folder open, revealing the clutter within. There are obituaries, copies of pages from old books, and black-and-white photos. </p><p>Michael knits his brows as he scans the photos. Some of them are of the institute in its early construction days. Workers occupy scaffolding and tall ladders. More people, most of them probably simple spectators, observe from the ground. He does a double take when he thinks he sees Max, but realises that’d be crazy. </p><p>“Construction on the institute began in 1903…” Vicky begins, tapping her finger at the bottom right corner of the photo. There’s a date: January 9th, 1903. </p><p>“Though some of these structures…” The woman points out the small piles of stones and little structures scattered around the courtyard. “...have been here since the early nineteenth century. I’m fairly certain there used to be a church here.” </p><p>Michael squints his eyes as he regards the crumbled stack of stones overgrown with weeds in the distance. </p><p>“You see there—“ Vicky points out, referencing a copy of a black-and-white photograph dating back to 1895. “That must’ve been the steeple.” </p><p>Michael tilts his head and nods. </p><p>“Oh! Dear me...” Vicky exclaims suddenly as she peers at her wristwatch. “Where does the time go?” She mutters to herself. “I’m afraid I have to go, Mr. Emerson.” The eccentric woman casts a glance over her shoulder. A man clad in a white uniform waves from afar. “Good luck with your research.” Vicky says before taking her leave.</p>
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